


We Don't Take Hits, We Write Them (tumblr prompts)

by ptrckstmp



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol, Broken nose, Established Relationship, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Nosebleed, Van Days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:05:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5330135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptrckstmp/pseuds/ptrckstmp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompts from tumblr. basically just a bunch of Peterick oneshots. enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we were supposed to be best friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from anon: "we were supposed to be best friends"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked for a sentence to base a fic off of and a lovely anon supplied this. I'm trying to overcome some terrible writers's block, maybe someday soon I'll work on some unfinished fics/sequels that I have in the works :P

Pete blinked his eyes open groggily, trying to figure out why he was awake, and where that sound was coming from. As the fog faded from his head he realized he had woken up to the sound of his phone vibrating. He reached over to his bedside table and picked it up. Travie’s face and phone number lit up the screen, but then the call went to voice mail and the screen went dark again. Pete sat up, groaning, and reached over to turn on his lamp. He cast a glance at the clock on the wall. It read 3:27 am.

He unplugged his phone from the charger, unlocked it, and quickly dialed Travie’s number again. It only rang two times before he picked up.

“Pete man! Hey, sorry to wake you up, but a friend needs help and I didn’t know who else to call.” His voice came through the phone, sounding tinny and washed out. Pete could hear the thump of a heavy bass line in the background.

“It’s cool dude. Who needs help?” Pete rubbed his free hand over his face groggily, trying to rub away the remnants of sleep that were still there. Travie hesitated, and Pete’s eyebrows came together in confusion. “Travie?” Pete said again when the silence became awkward.

“It’s Patrick.” Travie said with a sigh. “He’s super drunk, man, and he got in a fight and needs to go home, or maybe to the hospital, but I gotta take care of Beckett and Saporta, who are also both drunk off their asses. I’ve got my hands full, and you’re the closet friend to me geographically who’s still sober. I’m sorry to wake you up like this, I really am.”

Pete swung his feet out of bed and planted them on the floor, trying to absorb what Travie had said through his sleep muddled brain. 

“Uh, yeah, no problem. Just text me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He finally said.

“Thank you so much, man. I gotta go, I’ll text you.” And with that, the line went dead.

A heavy weight settled in Pete’s chest at the thought of seeing Patrick again. If he was lucky, maybe Patrick would be so drunk that he wouldn’t remember Pete in the morning. If he was lucky, maybe he  _would_  remember.

He pushed the sheets off his lap and stood up. He stooped down and picked up yesterday’s shirt off the floor, giving it a quick sniff before pulling it on. After wiggling into a pair of jeans and grabbing the jacket hanging off the hook on the back of his bedroom door he looked at his phone. Travie had texted him the address of the bar, and Pete texted back that he could be there in 10.

He shivered as he stepped into the chilly February air. The drowsiness had faded and now Pete just felt on edge and anxious, worried about Patrick, and, selfishly, worried about himself having to see Patrick again.

When he pulled up in front of the bar he was surprised to see Patrick sitting on the curb with another person, someone Pete didn’t recognize. He parked the car in front of them and stepped out, not bothering to turn the car off.

“You Pete?” the stranger asked, looking up at Pete, but not standing, since Patrick seemed to be passed out against his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Pete said simply, shoving his hands into his pockets to protect them from the cold. “I’m here to pick up Patrick.”

“I’m Travie’s friend. He told me you’d be coming. Help me get him up and into your car?” the stranger said. Pete just nodded, then went to Patrick’s other side and grabbed under his arm. Together they were able to drag Patrick’s dead weight into the passenger seat of Pete’s car, and Pete buckled him in, trying not to gag at the heavy stench of alcohol coming off of Patrick.

Pete then turned around to the Travie’s friend. “Thanks for your help.” He said. The other man just nodded, then turned around and went back into the bar. Pete slid back into the driver’s seat, then looked over at Patrick. He seemed to be completely unconscious, and he had a few purple bruises forming on his face, and blood smeared across his forehead and under his nose. 

It had occurred to him that he wasn’t even sure where Patrick was living at the moment, and that he’d have to spend the night on Pete’s couch. Pete sighed, then put the car back in drive and headed back to his house. So much for Patrick not remembering him the next morning.

Patrick was awake by the time Pete pulled the car into his driveway. “Wha’s happening?” he mumbled, fumbling with his seat belt. Pete reached over and unbuckled it for him. Patrick swung the door of the car open and tumbled out onto the driveway. Pete sighed as he got out of the car and circled around to where Patrick was, on his hands and knees, forehead pressed against the concrete. “Hurts.” he moaned softly.

Pete pulled him up under his armpits and circled his arm around the younger man’s waist, keeping him upright. Patrick leaned on him, basically a deadweight, and together they managed to stumble into Pete’s house and up the stairs to the bathroom, making only one pitstop on the front porch so that Patrick could vomit into the flower pot.

Pete sat Patrick on the toilet, then went into the kitchen to retrieve the first aid kit. When he returned Patrick was sobbing, one hand covering his eyes, and blood was dripping steadily from his nose again.

Pete’s heart broke. He’d never seen Patrick cry before. He’d seen him when he was angry, so angry that he was ready to put his fist through a wall, or Pete’s face, whichever was closest, and he’d seen him heartbroken and mopey, those were the times when Pete would come over and they’d play video games in the basement all day, but he’d never seen him honest-to-god cry. And it broke his heart.

In that moment Patrick looked so small, a little heap of chaos in Pete’s unusually clean bathroom, sloppy in all the ways Patrick usually wasn’t and Pete usually was, covered in blood and alcohol and vomit and regret and looking  _so damn broken._

“Patrick.” Pete said, putting the box of band-aids and the tube of Neosporin on the bathroom counter. He knelt down in front of the other man and reached for the hand that was resting on his knee. “Patrick, what’s the matter?”

Patrick let out a sob and Pete could hear him struggling to take a deep enough breath back in through all the blood that was running down his throat due to the nosebleed. 

“We were supposed to be best friends.” Patrick finally choked out. It felt like all the breath had been knocked out of Pete. What was he supposed to say to that? “ _We still are.”_? He wasn’t sure they were.

“Yeah.” He breathed out. And in that moment he missed it so much more acutely than he had in a long time–he missed sleeping in the same bed curled around one another, he missed sitting in between the rows of bunks at 3 in the morning, giggling with each other and trying not to wake the others, he missed Patrick knowing when he was anxious and calming him with the touch of his hand, missed Patrick’s smile when Pete would bring him his coffee in the morning, missed  _being_  with him and being a  _part_  of him, and missed everything that they had had when Pete would have said, without a doubt, that Patrick Stump was his best friend. He wanted to say the same thing now, but things had ended so badly, and they hadn’t seen each other in years…

Patrick wrenched his hand from Pete’s, and leaned his head into his hands, elbows on his knees. Blood was dripping onto his jeans, and onto Pete’s bathroom floor, but he didn’t care.

“We were supposed to be best friends and I  _left you,_ ” Patrick sobbed, “and you still came to help me. Why did you do that? Why are you so goddamn good Pete Wentz? I don’t deserve you, I never did.” His words were slurred, and interrupted by small hiccups, and his voice was nasally.  Pete didn’t know how to respond.

“Patrick.” He breathed out. “You’ve got it backwards…”

“No.” Patrick lifted his head from his hands. “I just left you. You got fuckin’ divorced and I couldn’t even bring myself to pick up the phone. I’m a shitty friend. No one deserves me, least of all you. I just hoped that maybe if I never called, you’d never have to see me again, and you could find better friends who would treat you right, but then you had to come and pick me up from that shitty club and act like nothing’s changed and I don’t know–” he broke off into sobs again, his whole body shaking with them.

Pete just stood up and wetted a washcloth under some warm water. He wiped the blood from Patrick’s face, and put Neosporin on his cuts, and helped him stumble out of his too-tight skinny jeans and into a pair of sweats, and he led him to the bed, and tucked the blanket under his chin, and watched as he fell unconcious again.

Maybe in the morning they could talk about being friends again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want you can leave me a sentence and i'll base a fic off of it (either here or @ actualpatrickstumph.tumblr.com) it would be super helpful uwu
> 
> edit: I wrote a continuation of this one shot and you can read it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6608104)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from anon: Peterick oneshot; Person A trips and falls on stage and breaks his nose. Person B freaks out and insists they go to the hospital, but person A wants to finish the show with a nasty bloody nose. Somebody loses the fight. You pick who is who.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, this isn't proofread. enjoy!

They’re playing some tiny venue on the west coast, but for once it’s not a shitty venue, just a small one. It smells like weed, and there’s a few people near the bar in the back who’ve already managed to get drunk and Pete feels right at home as he watches their opening act finish up from the backstage door. The stage is about 3 feet off the floor and the kids are standing right up against it, jumping and reaching up to try and reach the singer’s hands, some of them even singing along to the words. Pete thinks that maybe he doesn’t want the band to get any bigger if it means they can keep playing small venues like this. 

By the time the openers have finished and he’s helped his bandmates get all their gear on stage Pete is vibrating with energy, just like he is before every show. He bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting for the sound of Patrick’s guitar to buzz through the amp behind him. Patrick licks his lips nervously and tugs the brim of his hat a little lower over his eyes. He throws a glance over at Pete, who nods encouragingly, before leaning in to the mic to start singing Grand Theft Autumn. Pete mouths the words along with him, and is delighted to see the crowd doing the same. He still can’t believe that people have memorized his lyrics, are singing along to them, that anyone even knows who his little band is outside of his Illinois suburbs.

The show is going along splendidly, Patrick eventually warming up to being on stage (it always takes him a couple of songs to feel comfortable), and they’re about halfway through their setlist, just finishing up Tell That Mick, when Pete decides to cross over to Joe’s side of the stage and bother him for a little bit. It was a terribly miscalculated move, everyone knows how crazy Joe Trohman gets on stage, and Pete shouldn’t be surprised that Joe doesn’t see him coming. Pete’s timing for anything has never been great, and he gets there just in time for the headstock of Joe’s guitar to slam into his nose as Joe spins wildly. 

Pete stands there for a second, shocked, and Joe’s face morphs into a look of horror and apology, but he keeps playing. Pete lets go of his bass and lifts a hand to gingerly prod at his nose. It fucking hurts. Patrick glances over when he hears the bass line stop, and his eyes widen in shock. Pete feels blood drip down over his lips, but he just grins, bounces back over to his side of the stage, and jumps back in to finish up the last few measures of the song.

Immediately after playing his last note Patrick steps away from the microphone and hurries over to Pete. Joe and Andy share and awkward glance, Joe looking terribly awkward and sorry for what he’s done.

“Pete, dude, I think your nose is broken.” Pete snaps his attention back to their singer who is standing right between Pete and the audience, talking in a hushed voice. Everything is looking kind of hazy and Pete’s feeling a little bit light headed after the hard whack to his face, but he flashes one of his famous Wentz grins at the smaller man.

“‘m fine.” He assured Patrick, though his voice was nasally and there was still a steady stream of blood flowing from his nose and staining his shirt.

“I think we should probably just play Saturday and get you to the hospital before your nose swells or bruises too bad or you like choke on your own blood.” Patrick’s eyebrows were drawn together in concern, and he reached up to wipe some blood from under Pete’s nose with the sleeve of his shirt. Pete hissed in pain.

“We’re not even done with our set though!” Pete whined. “I can finish the set, it’s not a big deal.”

“Pete…” Patrick said, still eyeing him with concern. 

“Seriously Patrick. Can we get going again though? It’s getting pretty awkward in here.” He gestured over Patrick’s shoulder to the kids we were still standing there, talking among themselves and shifting uncomfortably. Patrick sighed heavily and shot Pete a glare before turning around and stalking back to his microphone. He looked behind him and gave a nod to both Joe and Andy, letting them know that the show would go on. Pete caught eye contact with Joe who mouth ‘sorry’. Pete just grinned and shrugged. 

They jumped right back in where they left off, and Pete tried to keep up the energy he had earlier but honestly his head was pounding and his face was throbbing and his shirt was caked with blood, so eventually he gave up and just let himself play the songs on autopilot.

Thirty uncomfortable, bloody minutes later and their set finally ended. Patrick mumbled a quick ‘thank you’ to the cheering fans, then practically dragged Pete off the stage and back into their dressing room by his wrist. He slid the guitar, which was still around his neck, off and leaned it up against the wall before doing the same with Pete’s bass. He scribbled a note on a leftover napkin and taped it to one of the tech cases where Joe or Andy would find it with a piece of gaff tape before pushing Pete out the back door of the venue.

“Where are we going?” Pete mumbled, still feeling a little dizzy and pretty much just gross.

“To the hospital so they can set your nose back in place you idiot.” Patrick said, grabbing Pete’s hand and tugging him to the bus stop on the corner.

“Thanks Rick.” Pete leaned in and placed a kiss of Patrick’s cheek, being careful not to bump his bruised and, as Patrick had predicted, swollen nose. “My mom would be happy to know that you’re taking care of me while we’re on tour.”

“Shut up Pete.” Patrick said, though his cheeks were tinted red. “You look like shit I hope they let you on the bus.” 

Pete laughed.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you Rickster.” 

“Probably accidentally get yourself killed.” Patrick mumbled grumpily, but there was no real heat behind the words.

“Yeah, probably.” Pete grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do u end things? idk. sry the ending is shitty whatever.
> 
> hey feel free to send me prompts! *finger guns* @actualpatrickstumph on tumblr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about a sick Patrick and Pete takes care of him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay listen I have a migraine today so that's why this happened. also, kinda wishing someone would bring /me/ a latte from my fave coffee place but hey, what can ya do.

Patrick groaned as his alarm went off on his phone. He’d felt the migraine coming the day before and had tried his hardest to stop it before it really started, he even went to bed at an astounding 8 o’clock the night before, but apparently it hadn’t worked. He turned the alarm off and slammed his eyes shut again. There was no way he was getting out of bed again for at least another 6 hours.

Patrick was, unfortunately, all too familiar with the inconveniences of a migraine. Fortunately he didn’t suffer from the usual migraine pains, but what his doctor had called ‘silent migraines’. His vision would go all blurry, his ears would ring, there would be an uncomfortable pressure in his head, he’d get nauseous and feel just overall crummy, but at least he’d never experienced the excruciating pain of the typical migraine headache. Once he had practically blacked out in a Noodles & Company though, and Pete and Andy had to usher him back to Pete’s house so he could lie down.

His phone buzzed with a text and he rolled over to see who it was from.

_Peter Panda: hey dude what’re u up to 2day_

Patrick groaned and typed out a response.

_Patrick Stump: in bed all day. gotta migraine :P_   
_Peter Panda: aw :(_   
_Peter Panda: I can be there in 15 :) :) :)_   
_Patrick Stump: pete no i just wanna sleeeeeeeeeeep_   
_Peter Panda: love u xoxo :* <3 <3 <3_

Patrick rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. He loved his boyfriend but right now he just wanted to wallow in his own filth and misery. If Pete thought that he would come over to find a happy, freshly showered Patrick he was dead wrong.

True to his word, fifteen minutes later Patrick heard the door of his apartment creak open and the sounds of Pete hanging up his coat and taking his shoes off. Patrick’s bedroom door swung open and Pete poked his head inside.

“Peeeeete.” Patrick drew his name out, trying to sound exasperated but mostly just sounding tired. “I’m not up to doing anything today I just want to sleep.”

“I know, I’m here to keep you company.” Pete said, keeping his voice low. “And I brought coffee from your favorite coffee shop. White chocolate mocha and hazelnut latte with an extra shot of espresso. I know you don’t usually like extra espresso because it makes you jittery but caffeine helps migraines, right?” he stepped into the room and shut the door softly behind him. Patrick smiled.

“Yeah. Thanks Pete.” He pushed himself up into a sitting position and made grabby hands for the cup in Pete’s hands. Pete handed it to him, then set the laptop he had under his arm and the paper bag he had in his other hand on the empty side of Patrick’s full sized bed.

“Are you okay to listen to music if I play it softly?” Pete asked, walking over to the record player set up near Patrick’s door.

“Yeah, that’s all I really do when I have migraines is listen to music honestly.” Patrick said, taking a careful sip of his latte. Pete slid a record off the shelf and put it on the turntable, lowering the arm down carefully. The first notes of ‘Blackstar” came through the speakers, and Patrick smiled.

“Oh, and I brought you a bagel.” Pete walked back over to the bed and pulled a bagel out of the paper bag and handed it to Patrick. “I’m not sure what kind you like so I just got you my favorite one. It’s cinnamon raisin. Just give the raisins a try I promise it’s really good.”

“Thanks for coming over Pete. Sorry I look gross.” Patrick mumbled, setting his coffee on the bedside table.

“Nonsense, that’s what boyfriends are for.” Pete smiled and settled under the covers with Patrick, propping himself against the headboard and setting his laptop on his lap. He ruffled Patrick’s (greasy) hair, then opened the lid of his laptop.

Patrick finished his coffee and his bagel, then snuggled into Pete’s side and closed his eyes, listening to Bowie’s voice float through his room and the steady ‘click click click’ of Pete’s keyboard as he typed.

He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke up again the room was completely silent, the record having gone still and Pete curled up next to him, asleep, laptop set to the side.

“Love you.” Patrick murmured into Pete’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once my best friend Kelley came over to my house with bagels and diet coke and just sat in my bed with me all day when I had a migraine bc she's actually the best person on this planet.
> 
> also, once I actually did black out in a Noodles & Company because of a migraine and it was after a concert and then later that night my friends and I met Dallon and Breezy Weekes on the sidewalk and Dallon and his magical bassist hands cured me of my migraine (ok not really, but at least for a little bit) #funstorytimewithmarissa
> 
> okay, as always, feel free to send me prompts either here or at actualpatrickstumph.tumblr.com


End file.
